


New York Ink

by Prochytes



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Fist (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27979197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: Three slightly occult small businesswomen continue to discover that their town is sometimes stranger than they are.
Relationships: Christine Palmer/Stephen Strange, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for _Iron Fist_ to the end of S2, _Luke Cage_ to the end of S2, and _Spiderman: Far from Home_. Small spoilers for the 2016 _Doctor Strange_ film. Swearing.

“I want the tattoo to look like this,” said MJ, handing over her artist’s pad. The Sisters inspected it.

“That… is not a spider,” said The First Sister, tactfully. 

“That is a red mutant beetle,” said The Second Sister, to whom tact did not come easily, even with paying customers, “squashed in a puddle of Curaçao.”

“Oh. Fuck. Sorry. Wrong page…” MJ hastily regained custody of the pad. “I didn’t design that one; my… friend and/or his definitely-creepy-whatever-he-says corporate sponsor did, for… um… the back of some… threads he has. I totally agree it sucks.” She flipped a page. “How about this?”

“That,” said The First Sister, impressed, despite herself, “is much better. You have quite an eye. Your… friend,” she smirked, a little, “is lucky to have a genuine artist in his life.”

“It’s to celebrate our getting together.”

“You are drunk on love,” said The First Sister. 

“And also,” The Second Sister said, wrinkling her nose, “drunk on liquor.”

MJ drew herself up to her full not unimpressive height, and counted it a victory that only moderate swaying was involved. “Is that a problem?”

“Absolutely not,” The First Sister said, firmly. “Our business model would collapse without drunk people.”

“You’ll do it, then?”

“Of course,” said The First Sister, “after you fill out some paperwork.”

“Paperwork?” MJ frowned, as The Third Sister pushed a document across the table. It was handwritten, in reassuringly firm calligraphy. “Why?”

The First Sister sighed. “You got to cover your back, as a tattooist. Sometimes clients decide in the morning that they’re not happy with your work. Sometimes clients don’t look after their tattoos sensibly while they’re healing up, and come crying to you when they get infected. Sometimes,” The First Sister winced, and rubbed her neck, “you get clotheslined by some bitch with a robot arm, because a small peeved martial artist has objected on entirely spurious grounds to a procedure you did involving her boyfriend, and is kicking your sisters’ asses three ways to Thursday…”

The Third Sister scowled out from under her blue fringe. The First Sister noticed, and swiftly emended:

“… which, obviously, would have gone differently, if one of them hadn’t had the ’flu.”

“That really happens?” MJ’s eyes were wide. 

“You’d be surprised.” The First Sister tapped the page. “Sign here.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I take it,” said The First Sister, “that you’re not afraid of needles?”

“If there are fewer than seven hundred involved,” said Strange, “it’s probably an improvement on my work week.”

“Good.” The First Sister pulled at the back of his shirt. “Let’s pop the hood.” 

The Sisters peered at the geometric designs that whorled across the sorcerer’s lower back. The designs crackled red when The Third Sister tentatively prodded one. 

“Ah. I see the problem,” The First Sister said. “Whoever botched up the fine needle-work here has thrown down a road-block between your root and sacral chakras. You let some real bush leaguer loose on this.”

“Most of the parlours in Shanghai were shut before Wong and I could reach them. Day was ending – also, the world. We had to throw something together to cage Raggadorr.” Strange twisted his neck to look down at the Sisters. “Can you correct it?”

“For the right score, we can fix most anything,” said The Second Sister, who had her ear against Strange’s tailbone. “Who is ‘Christine’?”

Strange looked furtive. “What?”

“Ink like this sings to the likes of us. Your tattoos know what you’re doing.” The Second Sister grinned up at Strange. “And who.”

“Anyway,” The First Sister said hastily, “do we have a deal?”

“We do.” Strange stopped glaring at The Second Sister, and reached for his wallet. “Cash or card?”

“Cash,” said The First Sister. “We fear the Dark Dimension much less than the IRS.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Greetings again, Iron Fist,” said The First Sister.

She realized, almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth, that “Greetings” had set exactly the wrong tone. Colleen Wing, standing at the doorway to the old Chikara Dojo, had shifted immediately into a fighting stance; The Third Sister, at her own elbow, had followed suit. The First Sister hastened to repair the damage:

“We need your help with a commission.”

“How?” The First Sister could see sinew tensed below the tattoo on the right arm. Pleased as The First Sister was with that piece of work, she could do with it being a little further from her own face. “You three keep reminding me ink’s not my thing.”

“You’ve heard the news from Harlem, about Luke Cage’s change of heart? Cutting his gang ties; becoming again what he used to be?”

“Yeah,” Colleen lowered her hands. “That was overdue. But I’m glad that Harlem’s Hero’s getting his groove back.”

“Mr. Cage contacted us,” The First Sister resumed, “because he wants work done. A permanent reminder, of the time when the man who cannot be broken, broke himself.”

“Humble, in a self-dramatizing way.” Colleen leaned against the door-frame. “Luke Cage is once more in the house.”

“My sisters and I are very psyched about this job…”

“There’s a whole lot of Luke Cage,” The Second Sister said, reverently. “He could be our Sistine Chapel.”

“… but there’s an obvious practical problem.”

“Couldn’t you just give him a henna one?” Colleen asked, in tones of calculated innocence.

The First Sister looked at her as though she had suggested catapulting a kitten. “No. We need you there, to infuse our tools with _chi_.”

“How could I pass up a chance to stick lots of needles in Luke, to remind him he shouldn’t be an ass-hole to Misty?” Colleen nodded. “I’ll do it.”

The First Sister beamed.

“For twenty-five percent of what Luke’s paying you.”

The First Sister’s face fell.

“And that had better all be clean,” Colleen continued. “I’m not accepting blood money from his Gangster Period.”

“Surely,” said The First Sister, in the hopeful, but dubious, tones of someone offering up a password of uncertain provenance to enter a speakeasy, “surely virtue is its own reward?”

“It is. That’s why I hero for free. Peripheral activity pays its way.”

“The other Iron Fist was more charitable.”

“The other Iron Fist,” said Colleen, “is Fortune 500, and not here right now.”

The First Sister decided to change tack. “Ten per cent, and we throw in a freebie for yourself. That unicorn we mentioned? The dice on fire? A nice surprise for Goldilocks, when he gets back.”

Colleen’s eyes narrowed. The First Sister sensed that she had made a negotiating misstep, and not a small one. “Twenty-five.”

The First Sister slumped. “Twenty, and my blue-haired sister gets a rematch. No swords; no sparkles.”

“Done,” said Colleen Wing.

FINIS


End file.
